When I look into my eyes
I see life there.
The dead are messing with my diaphragm.
I am not hungry.
When I look into my eyes
I see life there.
The dead are messing with my diaphragm.
I am not hungry.
The grave has begun to sink
from the weight of the air above it. and the rain
and my body lying on top of him
I know for sure.
I stay for hours
soaking up the warmth.
He holds me
I cook from the minute I get up, until the minute I sleep. roasting, braising, baking, stirring, chopping, and shopping so that I can start again.
so that is all I do.
Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no; it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempest, and is never shaken;
It is the start to every wandering bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his
height be taken.
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips
Within his bending sickle’s compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error, and upon me prov’d,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
I found frozen cookies. cereal is not bad, dry, with the milk as a chaser. you don’t have to wash the bowl.
I am in a purgatory of my mind beginning a path of questions that have haunted me for months. As if it thinks by asking again, the answers will be different. Or could be different. They are not.
So I make soup. Soups. I finish one and I start another. I have one in the fridge that I made yesterday, and two on the stove. Basic, common, known forever, soups. Pea soup with leeks, thyme and bay leaf. I will go out and find some fresh mint for it. Chicken soup, because Ferdinand wasn’t feeling right yesterday. Stock from the bones of the chicken I roasted the day before, soffritto of onion, carrot and celery with rosemary and bay leaf and in the bowl, chicken pulled from the same bones, and buttered rice that I almost always have on a covered plate in my refrigerator, because it gives me peace to see it there. I heat the chicken and rice up with the hot stock and veg and give the whole thing a drizzle of olive oil and a grind of black pepper. Then there is Ashe. Its secrets are in the unpredictability of whatever I have to put in it. It always starts with onion, ginger and garlic, sautéed with crushed coriander, fennel seed and mustard seed, toasted for a minute, and then a peeled and diced potato and enough water to cover. I cover the pot and simmer until the potato is tender. On top of that I add a bunch of each, if I have it, spinach, cilantro, green onion, parsley, dill, mint, mustard greens..today I had spinach, parsley, cilantro and scallions. Enough. It is best with another swirl of olive oil on top of the greens, to enrich the flavor, before the lid goes back on for another 4-5 minutes. The greens should be tender, but still green. If you have a dried Persian lime, you can stab that a few times and let it rest in the soup, after the soup has cooked. The lime is buoyant. Rest a heavy spoon on top of it, to keep it below the surface.
The truth is, it is not a purgatory I would ever want to be released from. It is the most beautiful purgatory I know. That is the answer, I suppose.
For no good reason, I felt joy percolate in my gut. Well, there is a reason, but it makes no sense, has no business speaking and I don’t care, because it hasn’t come around for a while and I want to stand next to it and feel it run right through me like a virus we are not supposed to catch. Just let it infect every cell and become a part of me that never leaves. I am tired of working out the logic. You tell me where the logic in love is.
My favorite dessert is creme brûlée. It is slightly dense in a way that gives me shivers when the spoon goes in. And it is just sweet enough. If somebody asks me what my favorite is, I don’t say, “ohhhh, I don’t know..there are so many good ones..I can’t pick.” I know exactly what my favorite dessert is. The taste of the vanilla bean that got its flavor hanging on a vine in the warm sun and then distilled itself by getting drunk sitting in a vat of vodka, is a fact of life that helps my heart beat.
It is not hard to make; you just have to pay attention. Slice the vanilla bean in half, and then down the middle and scrape the paste off the skin with the back of a small knife. Save one half for another time. Put everything, skin included, into 2 cups of heavy cream and let that simmer until there is a rim of tiny bubbles all around the edge of the pan. Turn off the heat. Let it sit for about 15 minutes. Whisk 4 egg yolks with 2/3 cup sugar and a pinch of salt, until combined. Pour hot cream slowly into the egg mixture, while whisking. Pour everything through a sieve to remove impurities. Preheat oven to 320 degrees. Set ramekins into a roasting pan and nearly fill the ramekins with the custard mixture. Set the roasting pan in the oven and then pour simmering water around the ramekins to come up the sides by about half an inch. Bake until nearly set. They should have a slight wobble in the middle. If some are undercooked, take them out with the rest, but leave the undercooked ones in the roasting pan for another minute. Cool completely. You can refrigerate them to hold them until you need them, once they have cooled. Let them come to room temperature before proceeding. Sprinkle the tops with a dense, but not thick, coating of brown sugar or raw sugar. Caramelize them using a blowtorch or the broiler. If you use the broiler, watch them like a hawk.
you are my subjunctive my hope for what is yet to come
I have kept starter in the refrigerator without using it for two months now. I got it going at the beginning of all this, with a dried cherry, an apple core, some flour and water, that I carried wrapped in a napkin and stuffed up under my sweater, to keep it warm. I haven’t felt like making bread for a while, but I am going to think about it.
It takes a couple of days to get the starter up and running again. I add as much flour as there is starter, and half as much water. Twelve hours later, I throw half of that away, and repeat the preceding step. When it starts to show a little life, I save the discard in a separate bowl, instead of tossing it. When the starter smells like fresh yeast and is full of life–a web of tiny bubbles that you can see through the side of the jar–it is ready. I add half of what I have (usually about a cup) to whatever is in the discard bowl, along with 2 cups of high quality flour (spelt and a little rye is my favorite mix), a good spill of olive oil around the edges, a rounded teaspoon of salt around the edges, and enough water to make a loose dough. I beat it for a hundred strokes with my hand, and let it rest, covered and in a warm place, until it doubles. I add more flour, not more than about 1/2 a cup, to make a dough that is not at all stiff, but can hold itself together without looking like a milkshake. I move that around the board for a minute, then turn it around and onto itself, to make a ball. I let it rise in the fridge overnight and up to 24 hours. I let it come to room temp, and rise a bit more on an oiled sheet pan, either in a ball shape, or ciacina, a flat-ish round. I make a slash across the top, if it is a ball, and bake it in a 400 degree oven until the bottom sounds hollow.
I was all Visible Eyelashes and Big Hair for the first quarter of giving it up, but if you looked back and couldn’t find me, what happened was, my eyelashes lost their grip. My hair got wet, my team was sleeping, and I dropped the pom pom’s because my hands got busy stripping off the uniform and turning the knob of a hot shower to remove all residue of trying to give it up. I moved from there like drainage, into a pool of exactly where I was and where I wanted to be.
So, I haven’t been that successful.
Then, like taps played too early in the morning: “THERE IS ONLY ONE THING TO DO, AND THAT IS, GET THE WINDOWS AND DOORS OPEN. THIS KIND OF THING HAPPENS ONLY IN THE DARK. LET THE LIGHT IN.” This is the cheerleader talking, because she is goddamned pushy. My son thinks he doesn’t know how I make him feel. I know exactly how I make him feel.
I wish she would shut up and leave me alone, but a week ago, I started marking off the days with a sharpie on the back of a business card, which is the longest I have gone so far. No, I don’t feel better for it, but unfortunately it is has made a difference to count. Tally marks prove I won a distance. Which is what I don’t want, but there it is. And distance gives perspective. Like when they tell you if you can’t get the answer on a test, “Come back to it. Give yourself some distance.” And they are right.
It can come to you.
I am nowhere obvious except not where I was and the cheerleader is on a warpath, playing movies of what used to make me happy. Yesterday I bought a cauliflower. There is nothing so soothing as a velvety cauliflower soup. It gives your hands something to do other than strip down.
Saute an onion, a few legs of celery, a well rinsed leek, a few fresh sage leaves (make sure they hit the bottom of the pot in plenty of fat to prevent them from going black) a few thyme sprigs, a few parsley stems, a peperoncino, two fat garlic cloves with the peels smashed off, in olive oil and butter, with a good pinch of salt and a grind of freshly ground black pepper. The pepper is important in this. Cauliflower needs pepper. Peel and chop a Yukon gold and add that. After five or six minutes, stirring when it sticks, add enough water to cover the potatoes. Bring it to a boil. Add the cauliflower, broken into flowerets. Add more water, to come just below the cauliflower. You can always add more at the very end. Taste the water for salt, and add another stream of olive oil. Cook covered, until the cauliflower and potatoes are tender. Remove the herbs. If you want, tie them with cotton string before you put them in, to make it easier to get out. Let the soup sit for a minute to calm down. Puree in batches in the blender, being careful to remember not to fill the blender more than halfway, each time. Taste again for salt, pepper, and olive oil or butter.
I am not sure if it is right or wrong that I cook for Ferdinand every night. I don’t care. I love to cook for him. I love getting the message every night asking me if we are going to have dinner. I love hearing his feet on the stairs. I love listening to him talk. I love how he says, “that was really good, Mom, thank you.” Then he bends down to hug me. It feels like seeing the whales or snow falling all around in you in a pine forest.
I remember once when Ferdinand was two, we were on a ferry and my mother was sitting next to me. I was kissing Ferdinand’s cheek and he was kissing mine and we were laughing and my mother said, “that is enough of that.” My mother was not a disciple of kissing and laughing. And if she went to church, you went to church. If she believed, you believed.
In the time it took for me to turn my head from my baby’s cheek to my mother’s eye, something ate my acquiescence. Then it took infinite root like a loose, stubborn weed that grows into a tree from soil that has forever refused to grow you what you want. I turned to her as quiet as the snow and as sure as the sea and said, “you had your babies. Ferdinand is mine.” Right or wrong.
Last week I rolled out tortellini and stuffed them with roasted butternut squash and dressed them with browned butter. I made teeny tiny gnocchi with ragu. Kichri with yellow lentils and rice. A hamburger from ground meat that I get at my favorite butcher down at Essex street market with a side of broiled Yukon golds and another side of garlicky broccoli. Soup of sweet potato, carrot and ginger with a side of a frittata with red peppers and onions. Chicken cutlets with lime and thyme. Side of leftover kichri. Chicken cutlets with panko, chiles, garlic and rosemary. Side of mashed and string beans. Bowls of broth. Bowls of carrot sticks and fennel slivers and cucumber spears. Apples, pears and clementines.